


Dawn (or Thereabouts)

by NeverwinterThistle



Series: Equilibrium [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-07 04:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7701706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have left this rather late,” Zenyatta observes, holding the rucksack open for Genji’s repair kit, and then for several cases of shuriken, and a bottle of lubricant for gleaming metal joints. “Not that I would dream of scolding you for your time management skills.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dawn (or Thereabouts)

Swords and shuriken, his self-repair toolkit. These are the tools of Genji, the warrior.

A folded dragon-print sensu sitting on his bookshelf, useless in the Nepalese winter. The books themselves: manga, mostly, the pages dog-eared and worn soft. These are the comforts of Genji, the man, the memory, the Shimada-gumi playboy who once woke with the sunset, won big at pachinko, and almost drove his brother crazy on a nightly basis.

Photographs, a family tapestry; these are fragments of his soul, as vital as the pistons that pump his mostly human heart. He can’t take them all. Where he’s going, some parts of him can’t follow.

Genji stares into his empty rucksack and wonders when it started to look so small.

“I could trade with someone,” he says hopelessly. “Or look through the store rooms for something larger. How did I fit everything in here in the first place?”

“Strange, how quickly one accumulates material things.”

“I’m sorry, Master. I should know better.”

“Not at all.” Zenyatta hovers a measured few inches above the ground at his side, helpfully holding the rucksack open. “I myself have been known to turn away for five seconds, and turn back to find my potted plant collection has increased exponentially. One would almost think someone was smuggling new specimens in amongst the others, if such a thing were not ridiculous. But we all have our trials in this life.”

“You are laughing at me.”

“Only a little bit,” Zenyatta assures him. “And only for the sake of teaching you humility.” He pauses. “And also because it entertains me.”

“Now there’s a surprise.”

The toolkit first, then. Not a patch on what a proper cybernetic clinic can achieve, but without it he’ll be in trouble within a month. Joints gather rust, air vents dust, and sticky blood impedes the movement of his fingers. Self-maintenance will be vital, if the new Overwatch doesn’t yet have a medical facility for machines. He doesn’t know. He wishes he’d thought to ask. That would have been the wise thing to do.

“You have left this rather late,” Zenyatta observes, holding the rucksack open for Genji’s repair kit, and then for several cases of shuriken, and a bottle of lubricant for gleaming metal joints. “Not that I would dream of scolding you for your time management skills.”

“Says the omnic who sleeps in late on cold days, and then claims that time is an illusion.”

“Time _is_ an illusion,” Zenyatta agrees. “But war waits for no man.”

“Assuming it really is war.”

“I cannot say for certain,” Zenyatta tells him. “But I know that my brother, Mondatta, is dead.” His voice hitches, glitches and then restores itself. “And with his death comes a turning point, and a wave of change across history. The Iris is unbalanced. We cannot ignore this. Which is why I have been packed and ready to leave for two days now.”

Cyborg limbs don’t fumble, or shake. Still, Genji almost drops his third case of shuriken. “What?”

“Surprising, is it not?” Zenyatta says. “Though I will admit, I am struggling to decide on which scarf I should bring. The mountainside is cold, this time of year, so it follows that a scarf is necessary. But which one? I have so many; the villagers keep giving them to me. I may require your expertise on this matter, Genji.”

Two days ago, Winston’s recall reached the sleepy monastery, shaking loose any lingering dust of indecision. Not that there was much; Mondatta is dead, the monks in disarray, and Genji knows what an avalanche looks like on the approach. The peace is at an end. The troops are being recalled. He’s leaving.

Alone, he’d assumed. Resigned to quiet heartbreak, and another farewell for the collection he has amassed over time; this one more painful than the rest. “I never thought you would come with me. You have…other students.” He quashed that kernel of jealousy a long time ago, and now in its place he feels worry. Zenyatta’s disciples, omnic and human alike; they have more need of him now than ever.

“My students have been reassigned,” Zenyatta says serenely. “Overwatch’s need is greater than theirs. And your need, also.” He balances the rucksack on his crossed ankles, reaching in to tidy Genji’s haphazard packing. Shuriken just _so_ , emergency charge packs over _here_ , antifreeze carefully capped and stored upright. “There. Your luggage rests in harmony.”

“I always knew I was your favourite,” Genji teases half-heartedly.  He hopes he doesn’t sound as shaken as he feels; he knows well enough to realise that it won’t make a difference. This close, Zenyatta reads souls like a seismograph, the internal tremors and quakes that speak louder than anything Genji could ever express out loud. His aura is a constant static shiver up the back of Genji’s spine. He can’t believe it used to unnerve him.

This is what he stands to lose, if Zenyatta means to follow him down from the mountain. Suddenly, the price is steep enough to terrify.

“I am not unaware of the risks,” Zenyatta says. The orbs around his neck and shoulders gleam a steady, reassuring blue. Systems at full power, no threats detected. “Suffering is nothing more or less than a reminder of our own existence. Death is but a surrender to the Iris; eventually, we will all attain completion. I would be proud to do so in service of this cause. At your side.”

 _Ready to die,_ he doesn’t say. It’s easy to pass death off as just another journey; easy for the monks who never leave their mountain. They think they understand, but they don’t truly _know_. Genji has stared death in the eyes. It came to him with the face of someone he loved. Loved, and has long since forgiven. But the pain will always linger in memory, and it’s not a pain he wants anywhere near Zenyatta.

 _No one is ever truly ready,_ he doesn’t say, or, _I could not survive losing you._ The first is a flawed argument, the second an entirely emotional response, and not the clear-headed approach he’d need to sway a determined Zenyatta. He used to be so much better with words. But that was all charisma, boyhood charm. He was never any good at vocalising the things that really mattered.

If they descend the mountain together, join Overwatch together, undertake missions together, and something goes wrong-

An omnic is so fragile, so skeletal, so lacking in any kind of defensive armouring. If a sniper-

If Genji is a second too slow in the rescue-

If-

“I sense your doubt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are afraid.”

“I can’t lose you too,” Genji says heavily. “Not you. I could fight off the whole world if it meant you would always be here in the monastery, safe. At peace. That would be worth going to war.”

“Genji.” The swords on display behind them are polished glassy, silver, and for a moment Genji catches the edge of Zenyatta’s reflection. He glows; orange-red, like magma, molten metal at the forge. It’s just an impression, there and gone in the blink of an eye. A trick of the imagination, perhaps. Or not.

“Yes, Master?”

“Tell me,” Zenyatta says, supremely gentle. “How can there be peace, when you are in danger? Should I spend my days in quiet contemplation of your passing? Meditate on a funeral I would not know about, until months after it was finished? Where is the peace in that?”

There’s no arguing with him when he gets _reasonable_. Once upon a time, Genji would waste long hours on trying, for the sole purpose of wanting to see a monk’s convictions break. For the brief entertainment it might bring him to ruin something lovely. Back when the pain drove him to lash out. When he thought he could lessen his own suffering by hurting others in turn.

All his wit and quick retorts shattered like glass against the wall of Zenyatta’s limitless patience.

“They might not welcome omnics,” he says, for the sake of trying. “Winston and Lena will, but I cannot speak for the rest. I don’t know who else is answering the call. They will not all be so enlightened.”

“Then I will open their eyes to the truth,” Zenyatta says.

“My brother might be there.”

It’s the first time he’s really allowed himself to consider it. Winston only made the briefest mention, brushing it off as less than important, a footnote to the main event. _Athena suggested reaching out to your brother. We need his skills, you see. We’re lacking a proper sniper._ No doubt Winston wasn’t sure how else to handle something so delicate. At least he had the decency to give warning.

Zenyatta tilts his head, considering. “And how do you feel about this?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do,” Zenyatta tells him. “Think for a moment. The answer will speak to you if you listen for it.”

“Yes, Master.” Obedience comes easy; it wasn’t always the case. Genji can recall a version of himself who found obedience synonymous with subservience, with letting his father cage him and train him into another Shimada-gumi dragon-chief. Once upon a time, obedience came as reluctantly as stiff, complex keigo. And respect was an utterly foreign concept.

Now, he understands. He unfolds himself from his kneeling seiza position, bending instead into the traditional full lotus. It’s an act of obedience, driven by respect. By love. He breathes deep and lets his mind go still.

Many things have changed in the years that have passed since his almost-murder. His body, made unrecognisable, rebuilt from metal miracles and what tattered scarps of flesh Angela managed to retrieve from his carcass. His mind, too; altered almost beyond belief.

He thinks of himself in stages. The first Genji, the wastrel, playboy and gambler. Days spent in sticky game arcades, nights in pachinko parlours and by-the-hour love hotels. Genji the rebel. Genji the disappointment. Genji the lonely young man, smothered by his family’s demands.

And then, Genji the wreckage. _Zombie Genji_ , he thinks of himself, now he’s rediscovered his sense of humour. Staggering around in his miracle body, driven to dismantle his own family empire. Angry, bitter, unapproachable. Lost, and lashing out because of it. There are more than a few people he owes apologies to, once he makes it back to Overwatch headquarters. He hopes they’ll forgive him. He’ll work to be worthy of their trust,  if they’ll give him the chance. He’s different now.

The current Genji is his favourite, he thinks, although he might be biased on that count. Butterfly Genji; the final, most beautiful form. It’s not a thought he expresses out loud: Zenyatta would want to know why he assumes this is the last of the changes. And then spend weeks calling him Butterfly Genji, lilting laughter in his bell-like voice. There is a lot of laughter here at the monastery. A lot of joy. A kind of inner sunlight he carries wherever he goes. It’s been a long time since he suffered.

In the distance, the omnic months chant sutras, voices chiming silver on the wind. The air smells of acrid incense. The cold stings his cheeks and stiffens his unmoving joints. Cools his internal hardware. Genji comes back to himself.

“I am not afraid of my brother,” he says slowly. “I do not hate him. I am not angry; I forgive him. If anything, I worry he has not been able to forgive himself. Maybe if I see him again, we can talk about it. Maybe I can help.”

“Given time, even the most damaged of souls can be mended,” Zenyatta agrees. “As you well know. And now you are prepared for the journey.” He zips Genji’s rucksack closed, and it’s only now that Genji glances outside at the sun, and finds it farther along the sky than it was earlier. Half an hour of contemplation, or thereabouts, and Zenyatta has finished his packing for him.

“You didn’t have to-”

“A matter of need,” Zenyatta says. “Time may be illusory, but we cannot wait here forever while you attempt to defy the laws of spacial distribution. You will have to leave some things behind, Genji.”

The Shimada family tapestry, his old training swords. His books- but those are better here, where the other disciples can borrow them and learn, or at least amuse themselves with highly unsuitable stories. He can always buy more.

His photographs, the few he managed to salvage. Pictures of his family; his brother. His younger self, the carefree scoundrel. There’s a pang in his heart at the thought of leaving them, but he has to. They’ll be safer here. If war ever comes to the Shambali, then the rest of the world will already be lost.

If war ever climbs the mountain, then he and Zenyatta will be dead.

“You grow melancholy.”

“Is there anything you don’t notice?”

“A difficult question,” Zenyatta says. “If I answer in the negative, I am guilty of arrogance. If I claim otherwise, I tell a lie. Perhaps it would be best to say that I notice just enough, and no more, or less. Then I am both…’pointlessly mysterious and irritatingly superior’, I believe you once phrased it. All is right with the world.”

Genji laughs. The cold air needles his chapped lips, but he ignores it. “You are never going to let me forget the things I said to you when we met.”

“Not while they continue to provide us both with so much entertainment.”

“I was unenlightened.”

“And I was the strange metal monk who would not leave you alone to brood, despite your best efforts to drive him off.”

“You were persistent.”

“And you were lucky,” Zenyatta says, “That I did not resort to chanting sutras outside your window all night. I considered it. Your need was far greater than the inconvenience to myself.”

“I threw rocks at you,” Genji remembers. He winces; ashamed of his past self, of the tiny chips in Zenyatta’s left shoulder that he still won’t have repaired. Approach a wounded animal and it will bite: Genji first tried to run, and then screamed himself hoarse at the cold metal face that wouldn’t leave him alone. And finally, lashed out.

He remembers so little of that time, but always, always the sharp screech of rock on metal, and Zenyatta’s flinch. Nine blue lights winked out in pain. He remembers watching the strange omnic clasp its shoulder with one hand, like a man would cover a wound. He remembers the lights fading to a dull dark blue, and Zenyatta asking, “If you kill me, will your soul then be at peace? Will you be healed? A steep price, but I will pay it for you. If it will save you. Are you going to kill me?”

He remembers the last few stones slipping through his shaking fingers, and the omnic raising its wounded arm, reaching for him.

That’s in the past, now. He’s a different man. But the scratches remain. _A constant reminder of my stupidity_ , he once said.

_No, Genji. A reminder of the moment you first let me touch you._

Dark memories wait at the bottom of the mountain. At least he won’t be facing them alone.

Genji unfolds his crossed legs, stretching them instinctively. His fingers twitch towards his calves and shins, where habit tells him he should be in pain. Muscle memory. Funny; he barely even has muscles anymore.

“I wonder what the training facilities will be like,” he says idly. His practice swords sit on their display stand; he’ll be leaving them behind. His true blades are sheathed and lined up tidily at his side, cleaned and polished, all but one wrapped for travel, the other ready for use. They’ll see plenty of action soon enough. But now he thinks on it more carefully, he finds that his idle change of topic is actually worth pursuing. “Winston said things would be rough for a while. There was no time to ask him what he meant.”

“We are no strangers to the spartan lifestyle,” Zenyatta says. He gives a fluid shrug, orbs rippling light around his neck. “Perhaps we will all be sleeping in bunks. Perhaps we will break our fast with gruel, and bathe in unheated water.” The lights on his forehead flicker; he winks. “Of course, by ‘we’, I mean ‘you’. No doubt I will find the amenities perfectly acceptable, seeing as I have about as much requirement for sleep as I do for gruel, or bathing.”

“Thank you for your sympathy. I, for one, intend to view the experience as an opportunity for personal growth.”

“And so the student becomes the master,” Zenyatta says. He sighs, staticky. “We have come full circle, and I am humbled by your wisdom.”

“You don’t look very humbled.”

“I regret this.”

“Strive for perfection, Master,” Genji says, reaching over to pat Zenyatta’s knee. His palm taps hard on solid metal joint-work. Elegant intricacy, a contrast to Genji’s utilitarian hinges. “Aim to transcend your earthly limits.”

Zenyatta cannot smile, except that he can; with his hands, tapping Genji’s bare cheek with the back of his index finger, an almost-caress; with the nine lights on his forehead, shifting blue to lurid green, Genji’s favourite colour. His hands are cold. They always are, outside the monastery. His torso radiates warmth, internal hardware producing a simulated body heat, but his hands are always cold. Genji tilts his head and invites the icy fingers to linger on what’s left of his skin.

“I am glad you will be coming with me,” he admits, and rubs his cheek, cat-like, against Zenyatta’s fingers. “I am not the same without you.”

“You are your own person, Genji. Whole, with or without my presence.”

“I know that. But I would miss you terribly. I am never truly happy without you around.”

“We walk in harmony, you and I,” Zenyatta says. “I would not have it any other way.” He drops his hand from Genji’s cheek and reaches instead for the nearby bookshelf. Finds the faded pink omamori that should have been burnt years ago, and never was. But Hanamura-jinja is a long way off, these days, and the amulet has never received a proper disposal. Like Genji, it is not so easily gotten rid of.

He remembers purchasing it, a week or so before his almost-murder. A generic good luck blessing; he’d had vague thoughts of invoking some spiritual influence for the weekend’s gambling, or maybe for finding a new lover.

He remembers Angela joking gently, as he lay in agonising recovery: telling him the spirits kept him alive. Showing her ignorance, in assuming the gods of his country would behave in the same way as the ones she was more accustomed to. Trying to tease a smile from her patient. It wasn’t funny at the time. Still, he kept the omamori. For remembrance. Or something.

Zenyatta ties it around one of the straps of Genji’s rucksack.

“One can never have too much luck,” he says. “And you cause more trouble than I alone can ward off. Added spiritual assistance would be most welcome.” His fingers are gentle with the small silk bag. He is as reverent with Genji’s gods as he is with his own.

“They will learn to love you, in Overwatch,” Genji decides. “Even the ones who are afraid of omnics. They’ll learn otherwise. The whole world should be in love with you.”

“I will settle for just the one man,” Zenyatta says serenely. “So long as he is you. In all the world, nothing else could make me happier.”

Angela will like him, Genji knows already. Angela likes the healers, those who help before harming; she’ll want to meet the person who managed what she herself could not, and patched up a broken soul. She and Zenyatta will have much to talk about. It’ll be a joy to introduce them.

Fareeha, McCree, Reinhardt; most of the old guard will welcome any ally Genji vouches for, omnic or not, and especially one as calm as Zenyatta. In a miniature army staffed with volatile personalities, tranquillity is the rarest of diamonds. If the base is too small, the quarters too cramped, the tempers too short, Zenyatta will find himself with plenty of work to do. That’ll please him; like Genji, he doesn’t cope well with being idle. And like Genji, he makes friends easily. He’ll be welcomed. Chances are half the base will be a little in love with him by the end of the first week.

Genji lets himself sway sideways, tilting his head to rest on Zenyatta’s shoulder. The blue-gold orbs shift obligingly to make room; they rise to encircle the two of them.

This close, he can hear the soft hum of Zenyatta’s internal hardware, as constant as Genji’s heartbeat- and he does still have a heart, against all odds. Whatever scraps of humanity Angela could salvage, she did so, and while he knows he was far from grateful at the time…

Zenyatta’s undercurrent hum is a pleasant counterpoint to Genji’s pulse; when he first started trying to find himself amid the rubble, he used the sound as a focus point to calm himself. When meditation was unachievable, he could at least sit still and be soothed. These days, when sleep will not come, he listens instead. The whir and pulse of life itself.

He closes his eyes; the cold cannot touch him. Zenyatta’s shoulder is solid steel under his cheekbone, and Genji feels warm enough to melt glaciers. Every inch of him is singing.

“You have touched the Iris,” he observes through numb lips. The insides of his eyelids glow like braziers; he knows better than to open them.

“Only just.”

“I do not require comforting.”

“Do you not?”

“I tell a lie. Forgive me.”

“Forgiven, and forgotten. Be at ease, Genji. We have a journey ahead of us tomorrow. Clear your mind and stabilise your inner self. Let go your fears for the future; if the worst comes to pass, then we will meet and overcome it. ”

“Yes, Master.” He inhales, and the air tastes sharper, cleaner; the smell of distant rain that lingers in his throat. He breathes. The vents in his shoulders open themselves and release small clouds of steam into the room. He wonders distantly if that will bother people at Overwatch headquarters. There are so many things he wonders about. It’s so difficult to worry while Zenyatta coaxes singing from his soul. The world is red and dull, a whir and pulse inside and out; he feels cocooned. He feels his doubts being soothed to silence.

“Enough, I think,” he breathes, and the heat begins to fade. As it always does, the moment he asks; always, always, it’s his choice. The power Zenyatta gives him borders on staggering. The freedom to choose his own form of healing, if and when it suits him.

Genji opens his eyes slowly. The world is just as he left it, except that his cheeks are no longer wind-burnt, his lips no longer chapped, and one spindly metal arm rests gentle around his shoulders.

Not for the first time, Genji wonders how things might have been, had he met Zenyatta earlier in his life. How it might have changed him; how they might have fit together. If they even could have.

They’d have found a way, he suspects. They’re both unbelievably stubborn. Tenacious to a fault. They’d have worked something out.

And however the reformed Overwatch greets them, they’ll be together to face it. That’s important. Maybe one of the most important things there is.

Genji kisses Zenyatta’s shoulder, his lips sliding on the metal.

“I don’t know what to call you,” he murmurs, and does it again when Zenyatta’s fingers ghost up the back of his synthetic spine. “What is the appropriate form of address for a war zone? What is your preference?” The rules are so much clearer among the Shambali. In the monastery, they are teacher and student. Outside, they are Genji and Zenyatta, friends and partners and lovers, a set of scales, balancing each other out as the mood takes them.

Overwatch will change things. He has to wonder if their self-made harmony will reshape itself to suit a new environment.

Zenyatta taps his fingers against Genji’s spine. “You will call me Master while on duty,” he says serenely. “As you already do. In private, you are of course welcome to refer to me however you please. And I in turn will do the same. Genji in the field, and otherwise…” he tilts his head. “Green Cyborg Ninja Dude. As usual.”

“Consistency is the cornerstone of inner peace,” Genji says gravely. “Thank you, Master Floating Zen Robot Jerk.”

“Your thanks is quite unnecessary.”

“Then it’s lucky I was being insincere.”

“Were you? I had not noticed.”

“We will have to work on your observation skills, in that case. If you truly mean to join Overwatch with me.”

“I look forward to your training, Master Genji. And any wisdom you see fit to share with this humble apprentice.”

Genji laughs, and leans his cheek on Zenyatta’s shoulder. He likes the contrast, skin on metal. He leans in like an affectionate puppy. Once upon a time, he’d have been far too proud for this, this unabashed connection with an omnic who warms his soul like sunlight. But once upon a time he was an idiot. Now he doesn’t care.

Or maybe he does care. Some days, it feels as if he never really knew _how_ to before coming to the Shambali.

“When do we leave?” he asks into Zenyatta’s shoulder.

“Dawn, I had thought.”

“So early. Are you certain your systems will survive the shock?”

“Nothing is ever certain,” Zenyatta says gravely. “But I will be ready nonetheless. Probably.”

“I will come and wake you if you are not ready.”

“Be _gentle_ this time, Genji. Last time the other monks thought I was being murdered.”

Genji grins at the memory. “You made the mistake of telling me that you were both sensitive to temperature, and waterproof. There is a tradition; I could not help myself.”

“One of these days I may return the favour,” Zenyatta says. He taps his fingers against the segmented sections of Genji’s upper spine. “In the name of restoring balance, of course.”

“Petty, _Master_.”

“I learnt it from a master, _Genji_.”

“Clearly, he taught you well.”

They fall silent; an easy peace they fill with whirring hardware and heartbeats, Zenyatta gently rubbing the back of Genji’s neck. Genji releases the air vents on his shoulders, ribbons of steam dissipating in the cold air. He thinks about slumping down, planting his head in Zenyatta’s lap and announcing that he doesn’t want to leave. Demanding more coaxing. A small, playful tantrum; his younger self would approve. He could grumble about the arduousness of the journey, the forecast rainstorm, the fact that Overwatch’s kitchens probably won’t have any of his favourite teas.

Then again. The journey might almost be worthwhile if it ends in-

_Hello again, brother. Guess who? And also, there is someone I’d like you to meet; I remember how you were always telling me to settle down._

There might still be some fun to be had at Overwatch headquarters.

“Dawn, then?” Zenyatta asks, as Genji lifts his chin off his shoulder.

“Dawn. Or thereabouts.”

“Then I suppose I should go and choose a scarf to bring,” Zenyatta says with a crackling sigh. “I can only justify one.”

“Come, then,” Genji says. He stands in one smooth movement; synthetic legs don’t stagger, however long he’s been seated. Pins and needles are consigned to memory; there are some perks to the cyborg existence. He extends a hand, and Zenyatta allows himself to be tugged to his feet. “Since my packing is finished, I will assist you with yours. You have left it rather late, don’t you think? I hear we leave at dawn.”

“Or thereabouts.”

“As you say, Master,” Genji says. He grins; the faceplate to his helmet lies on a nearby shelf, but he feels no need to replace it just yet. It’s a beautiful day. “I will prepare the pitcher of ice water, just in case. A wise omnic once told me that pain is an excellent teacher.”

“Meditate on your sins, you dreadful man,” Zenyatta says. “I despair of you.”

“You love me.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.” Zenyatta interlocks their fingers together, metal slotting easily in place. They’ll let each other go once they reach the monastery; a matter of respect for the other monks. But they will walk together, stand together in Zenyatta’s rooms, and Zenyatta will sigh over the scarves the villagers make him because he heals their children, and Genji will pretend to consider and then choose the brightest green he can find. He’ll claim it’s highly fashionable; Zenyatta will pretend to believe him.

This is how the future goes: they’ll leave at dawn.

Or thereabouts.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic so fluffy I feel like I just deep-throated a stick of cotton candy. 
> 
> Side note, but I used several Japanese terms in this fic, some of which people might not be familiar with. Would anyone like a dictionary at the end of the story? I'll think about it for a day or so, maybe add one if I think it's too jarring without.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Afternoons (More or Less)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12001608) by [Brightspark (Kitchat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitchat/pseuds/Brightspark)




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